


we are friends, says the cat

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (all I wanted to do was write some fluff but of course that didn't happen), Angst, Christmas Gift Fic, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: All of that entwining with everything else. Yes, he is tired, worked to the bone. But more than fatigue weighs on his chest, he is terribly alone. That, though, is not to be blamed on anyone but himself. Another sore point, the worst. This muscle of the heart that does not heal.Who better to comfort you in your woes than your most loyal companion, the cat? A quiet morning at Stafford Terrace, Freddie cuddling the cats.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	we are friends, says the cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, FoH! Thank you so much for your friendship this year! You welcomed me into this fandom with open arms, engaged me immediately in conversation, and quite single handedly made this the most interesting and enjoyable fandom experience I've had. Your friendship has meant more to me than you could possibly know, and I can say with absolute certainty that I will not be able to look back upon this year (2020, no less) with anything but fondness. Thank you for all your support (both in fandom, behind the scenes, and personally) and your encouragement of my writing. I am immensely, _immensely_ grateful. Here's to another wonderful (and hopefully, even better!) year, cheers darling ❤️
> 
> (set ostensibly, If I have my timeline interpreted correctly, after the breakup with David and before Phoebe came along; one of the few times Freddie was, for all intents and purposes, alone)

_Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.  
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says  
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing  
milk from his mother’s forgotten breasts._  
– _The Cat’s Song,_ Marge Piercy

-

He is sore when noon sunlight comes creeping along the white sheets. It is a usual occurrence, no need for a thought. A bladder to be relieved. Sheets pulled back, a sip of water, a stretch—sore shoulders, sore back, aching arse. Flesh revealed. There is nothing to do today.

Leisurely piss, water wet fingers through hair, a pass at his face—no bothering with shaving.

The album is finished, a tour is imminent. Flowers still fresh on the nightstand, perfectly decorated London flat. Quiet even in this late hour, everyone asleep after the early morning fun. Clothes discarded on the floor—pick up and fold, put away. Some things he still does himself, even if rarely. A new pair of shorts and a kimono, a man put back to rights.

He pulls back the covers to get back into bed, to laze until the late afternoon hours. There, in a fold, is a bit of red—the slight hazard for fun. That would explain the slightly more than usual ache. Strip the bed, lie on top of the remaining sheet. Someone can deal with it later.

The sun slides across the silk covering his chest, warm and comforting. Like a cat basking. A companion—he gets up and opens the bedroom door. His sweethearts will come as they always do in an instant, wanting to be cuddled by their papa.

He is proven correct—just as he ruminates on a piano melody, doubly on his curious world lit by lilies and felines—a cat brushes his bare calf and walks up to settle on his chest, right in the golden patch of sun.

“Jerry! Sweet one, there you are,” he strokes over the cats ears, her purr vibrating in the air, pleasanter even than a tuning fork or a Tibetan gong.

“Have you missed me? Awful of me to leave you so long, yes…”

The cat nuzzles his face, licks his rough cheeks. He presses kisses to her forehead. Steady companion, steady spirit.

“Do you think Jerry, hmm my baby,” he whispers very quietly in the way one does with a great secret, a trembling confession, “Do you think the nasty reporters are right about me?”

It has been rather a strain. It always is, but one easily resigned to the background like a bad bit of telly. This round, however… Perhaps he is just too worn out from this tour, but their words stick to his thoughts, threaten to sully his performance, his enjoyment of it all.

So many little sentences, marked down for a profit, as a nice piece of gossip. Roger can lose his head about that, but him? Let him try and say a word about it, see where that gets him. More insinuations, more of their _clever_ innuendos. He hardly speaks in interviews, in press conferences anymore, worried for what they might twist his words into.

All of that entwining with everything else. Yes, he is tired, worked to the bone. But more than fatigue weighs on his chest, he is terribly alone. That, though, is not to be blamed on anyone but himself. Another sore point, the worst. This muscle of the heart that does not heal.

“You love me, don’t you? I take good care of you, don’t I? Lovie, lovie,” Jerry offers no response but a look around the room, before nestling back into his chest.

_How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven._

Something David has told him in jest, in near jealousy. Odd how he comforted him in ways he didn’t know. Poking at the truth beneath the slick surface. Rolling tides beneath ice.

Towards the end, they hardly spoke. He would come in, sense a storm, sense a need for space, and try anyway to burrow in. Then, a rapid escalation. Something he always forgot was inevitable, holding out hope to the last. He himself, in the end, is to blame for the extinguishing of a flame. That is clearer cut than anything. He should have done more, gone off when David wanted space, kept all his worries to himself, locked safely away as they had been for all those years before. A lesson: when you have what you want you are not allowed to hate it.

The surging response: but it’s me I can’t –

No, you’re having a good time, _remember?_ An absolute fucking _ball!_

He brushes them away, these unwavering thoughts. Jerry is still on his chest, now grooming his paws.

A pleasant day, a calm day. That’s all he wants and it’s what he’ll have.

“Where’s Tom, hmm? Is she hiding again?”

It’s not as if this will miraculously cause a cat to speak or, in fact, help him to find Tom, it’s rather the natural way of talking to a companion—even or especially an animal one—when they are lovingly curled against your chest. A warm weight, a loving friend who doesn’t leave.

He strokes the cat’s fur, sunlight streaming through the curtains. There is some nonsense said and an understanding purred response. Down the hall there is noise, movement, someone getting up. His friends won’t bother him, they know they needn’t. He doesn’t want them to. All he wants is this moment of quiet, away from the growing storm that is his career and life, a cat, flowers, and some sunlight.


End file.
